


OH HOW FAST THE EVENING PASSES, CLEANING UP THE CHAMPAGNE GLASSES

by theadamantdaughter



Series: Sober II [3]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Blutara - Freeform, F/M, Zutara, an anthology of sorts, maybe smut later, modern grunge au with bending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 13:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17447867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theadamantdaughter/pseuds/theadamantdaughter
Summary: a brief reprieve for katara and her masked partner





	OH HOW FAST THE EVENING PASSES, CLEANING UP THE CHAMPAGNE GLASSES

“It never ends, does it?”

He pauses at the top of the fire escape, halfway to his window.

Four weeks, they’ve been true partners in this. Four weeks, she’s been the judge, jury, and executioner. Four weeks, he’s come to know her as more than a victim of Yon Rha, recognized her as strong and fearless and decidedly cruel.

She’s beautiful, too. Enchanting. Haunting. _Soft._

He’ll never admit that to her, never tell her how lovely she looks in moonlight and the cool, midnight air. The distant city lights glow around her, illuminate her frame from behind. Her hair curls in a braid around her bare shoulders. Her red dress flutters in the polluted breeze, clings to her lean legs and thin waist.

Zuko wonders if she’s eating.

“There’s a lot of ‘em. And there will always be more,” he mutters.

Her sigh greets him. “That’s pessimistic.”

“You just said it never ends…”

His one-bedroom apartment, with its warped wood floors and questionable smells, shudders slightly as he slams the window open. Before he even slips inside, he’s greeted by something musty, something else verging on grungy. Sucking one last gulp of fresh air through his teeth, Zuko extends a hand over the pane to her.

“We’re two people up against a network, a network you put on high alert by taking out Yon Rha. Stopping them all is impossible.”

The Painted Lady — Katara; although, he’ll never use that name unless he feels it’s dire — laces her fingers delicately with his, gathers her dress, and follows him through the window. A shadeless lamp, the only light he left on in his absence, adds a fearsome glare to her determination.

“Unless we go after the top.”

His hand hangs in the air, empty now without the warmth of hers.

“You’re kidding.”

“Why do you say that?”

Zuko drops his hand, waves at the air, drops his hand again then grabs his throat in agitation. The first time he’s ever had her in his hovel of a home, the first time she’s accepted his invitation to come up, and she’s propositioning they go after—

“We can’t do that,” he states, teeth grit behind his mask.

She’s less than convinced. “Sure we can.”

“No.” There are a thousand and one reasons why it’s too risky, too dangerous for them both, but none of them matter in the shadow of one simple fact: Ozai Namakoto is the head of this illegal pack.

The wooden edges of his mask dig painfully into his jaw. “It’s not a good idea, Katara. Trust me.”

“I think you’re just scared. What’s the matter, Spirit? Zhao got your balls?”

“It’s more along the lines of… I want to  _keep_ my balls.”  

“If you have any to begin with.” Her eyes flick down him, sharp and perceiving. “You could be a woman for all I know… but rest assured, a cunt’s far tougher.”

Zuko rolls his eyes. “Is that why you’re so hellbent on murder?”

A shrug answers him, making her dress flounce around her. Katara discards her hat and veil, smooths the flyaways from her hair, and sinks into a chair at his wobbly kitchen table. He follows her, keeping hidden in his full vigilante attire, sans swords. They clunk to the floor beside his mattress.

Free of the additional weight, Zuko stretches his back with a groan. He flips on the light in the kitchen, blinks behind his mask at the harsh, flooding fluorescents. Katara can only see the ivory slip of skin from his jaw to his collar, but right now, he swears she’s paler than him.

“I’m going to make us eggs,” he announces.

He’s learned not to ask about her well-being. Hell, she’ll probably spook if he does, bolt out of his apartment and return to the clipped conversations of their early vigilante work. Before he dumped Yon Rha’s body in the harbor. Getting six words used to be like pulling teeth with her.  

Still, he makes a show of putting the tea kettle on, tossing duck fat into a heating fry pan. Two gloved fingers jab at a bowl of fruit on the table. “You. Peel some oranges.”

“Is this breakfast?”

“It’s Vitamin C and protein.”

“That sounds like the start of a dirty joke.”

“Vitamin D and protein,” Zuko corrects.

“Huh?”

“If I wanted to make that joke, I’d—” The oil pops loudly, making him jump. “Nevermind.” Removing his gloves, Zuko lowers the heat, then cracks four eggs into the pan. “You’ve been out all night in the rain. I don’t want you getting sick.”

He looks behind him, finds Katara wiping at her red paint and eyeing him.

“What?”

“Don’t start caring about me,” she warns. “You’ll regret it.”

Her fingers move from her face to her braid, unwinding the endless locks of her hair. Zuko watches for a breath, then returns her glare before huffing into his mask.

“I’m not. Don’t worry.”

He rummages for a spatula, flips the eggs in the sizzling oil, pulls the tea kettle off just as it starts whistling. Katara moves to his side, two teacups at the ready and little bags of chai awaiting.

Her favorite.

He’d be better off not knowing that.

But he does, because in the many nights following her righteous taste of bloody justice, she’s softened just enough to reveal secrets when she thinks he’s not looking.

Her fingers shake the closer to morning it is. Cigarettes, she told him one night. Her shoulder aches if they have to climb, so much that he starts avoiding it at all costs. A stray bullet, she explained later. She’d been barely eight. At night, when he closes his eyes, he traces the scar that kisses her scapula.

The tea— the tea helps. It’s warm, soothing. He brings her a mug for their stakeouts and she curls her entire body around the steam. Eventually, he figures it out: chai is gone the quickest. It’s her favorite, and he’s developed a taste for it.

“Do you want any sugar?” he asks her.

Katara shakes her head, takes her cup and returns to the table where two peeled oranges are waiting.

Zuko dumps a spoonful of sugar into his, then sets it down across from her. The scent of citrus reaches him, fills him with energy in places he hadn’t realized were so depleted. He holds the breath in, rouses long enough to dish their eggs onto plates.

A sigh rushes from him when he finally sits, heavy and limp.

“Eat.”

“Bossy.”

“The sooner you eat, the sooner I can sleep.”

Katara’s brow quirks. “Aren’t you going to walk me home?”

His face is a blank slate, but his mask’s snarl fits his weary mood.

“You’re a big girl.”

She accepts that with a shrug, picking up her utensils. Half of her first egg is gone in a single bite. Katara talks around a second mouthful.

“I’ll just stay here,” she suggests. “I’d make it back fine, but it’s a terribly long walk and I thought when you invited me up, it was an invitation to sleepover.” She gulps the egg down, then washes the taste with tea. “Otherwise I would’ve said no.”

An orange slice follows, all before he’s even tipped his mask back part way to eat his own portion. Zuko does so slowly, resisting the urge to rip it away completely.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Guess I’m full of them tonight,” she quips. “What’s the hang up on a sleepover?”

“A sleepover? I can’t—”

“Not for sex, I—”

“Of course it wouldn’t be for sex.” He cuts her off sharply, fingers twitching then curling into fists around his plate of untouched eggs. His face itches. “You don’t want to walk home, but… it’s not a good idea for you to stay here.”

“Do you turn into a big, green ogre before bed?”

“An ogre would be the least of your worries.”

“What? What does that mean?”

“It won’t mean anything if you leave.”

Katara squints at him, and he stares back. Until something cold and unsettling trickles down his spine, and he fears she sees right through him.

Through the wooden mask and into his skin. Through the his clothes and all the way to his bones, right down to the core of his being. And what does she see? A broken body, a rekindled spirit, a light that’s come back to life because of her?

Or Ozai Namakoto’s son?

He’d rather not learn, rather not take the chance of breaking the careful balance they have. Rather not risk her life by turning over his identity, the one thing that keeps her safe when the mask is gone.

“Trust me. Alright?” Zuko’s voice is soft, almost pleading. “I’ll walk you home. I promise.”

Her curiosity lingers, but as his attention falls to his plate, it fades away. A very quiet sigh greets him, like she’s very diligently choosing a new mood. And failing.

“I’m disappointed, you know.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“I thought we were going to have a breakthrough tonight.”

“Like…” Zuko looks up, and he’s relieved to find a playful warmth in her eyes. He grins wolfishly across the table at her. “Sexually, or—?

“Really?”

“You put the idea out there.”

She tilts her head. “Would you?”

“Would I what?”

“Fuck me, nitwit.”

Zuko’s eyes flare wide. “I- uh—”

How does he answer that? Truthfully?

Truthfully, she’s gorgeous. Her smile is something he’ll never forget, her eyes are intoxicating, and her body is… well. He’s checked her out more than he should and he wouldn’t have a single complaint if she chose to strip naked for him.

“Yeah?”

“You sound uncertain.”

“I can’t tell if you’re serious.”

“Maybe I was. Maybe I wasn’t.” She flips her hair over her shoulder. “Mr. Maybe.”

“Fuck. You’re ridiculous,” Zuko breathes out unsteadily, the sound morphing into a quiet chuckle.

He enjoys her perturbed glare while it lasts.

“I thought our breakthrough would come in the form of learning more about you,” Katara amends. “And I don’t mean what you’re working with under those pants. You know my name, bits of my history, my motivations… I don’t know anything about you.”

“You know where I live,” he offers. “You know I firebend.”

“All very impersonal things… But, your name? Your face?”

“Does it help if I tell you to call me Lee?”

“No. That’s not your name.”

“Why does my name matter?”

“Because a name can reveal a lot about a person.”

_Yeah. Too much._

He glances aside, agitation in his jawline. He knows her well enough to know she’ll push; there’s really no way out of this in the long-run. Tonight, he’ll talk around it, distract her from it. Tomorrow? A week from now?

His food is becoming less and less appetizing, and he hasn’t had a bite.

“Come on… Don’t look so tense about it. It’s only a question.”

“That you won’t let go.”

“It just doesn’t make sense.” Katara raises her hands placatingly. “And, I know, I know. You say an ogre would be the least of my worries, but I don’t believe that. We’re partners.” Her hands fall, fold together on the table. She leans towards him. “We trust one another.”

“Because you don’t know me!” 

Anger flashes, hot and hard, hammering into his ribs. It’s a bright hot flare that refuses to die out quickly. It crackles and pops, like his bones are dry kindling.

For once, he manages to shock her. For once, she has the good sense to fall silent, to keep any quick retorts to herself. “You don’t know me, Katara, and you don’t have half a clue what kind of danger you’d be in if you did.”

And it’s all for her, all this anger. For her safety. But, dammit, she doesn’t know that. He’s never shouted at her before, never so much as raised his voice. It wasn’t necessarily to yell, to snap. But, he did; now, all she sees is the violence. 

She swallows, a loud, clear sound. “I—”

The guilt that results is sudden and strong, colliding into him with the force of a truck. He exhales slowly, as if he’s being slowly compressed.

“You don’t know me,” Zuko says, trying for a softer tone. He sounds tight, frustrated, and it ripples through his body. “There are ramifications that come with my identity. If these men we’re hunting were to catch you---”

“I wouldn’t tell,” Katara promises.

“I know you wouldn’t. That’s the problem.”

Her brows furrow in confusion.

Zuko rolls his shoulders, rubs at the back of his neck to ease the creeping pain settling at the base of his head. “They’ll always stop short of killing you,” he murmurs. “Always… just short.”

“You speak as if you know them.”

He nods. “Intimately.”

How could he not? He has enough reminders on his body. His eyes glaze over with the memories of them. Zuko feels her staring, feels small under her gaze, pinned like a bug inside a glass. He senses the heaviness in her look, the sadness she carries around.

“This is why we have to stop them. You think I’m the only one worthy of protection, but you’re wrong. You’re a good man. You deserve it, too.”

She’s so good. So soft. Why can’t she see it?

He shakes his head.

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew me.”

“Then, let me.” She reaches over the table, covers his hand with hers before he can pull back. “Let me know you, please. We can protect each other.”

Zuko stares at her hand. Then his gaze works up her arm to her face, down to her plate.

Her eggs are gone. And his are cold.

“Come on.” He stands up, hunches his shoulders to beat the weight she wants to take. “I’ll walk you home.”


End file.
